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by linndechir



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis is starting to realise that having a queen with all the social graces he lacks is an unexpected advantage, but only if the queen knows what the king needs from his lords.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "stolen kiss" at the gameofships Valentines on LJ, but it got a lot longer than expected. This is set in the same verse as my other Stannis/Sansa fics, but I think it also works as a stand-alone, if you can live with Stannis marrying Sansa after winning the war because he needs an heir.

It is always too cold for her taste in Stannis' study, the windows open even though winter is barely over. But the cold is hardly worse than it had been back home in Winterfell, so she simply steps closer to the fire and waits, her eyes darting over the documents on the large desk. She isn't snooping – the guards did not even hesitate to let her into the king's office in his absence, and he has been sharing more and more matters of politics with her. It seems that he has realised that having a queen with all the social graces he lacks is an unexpected advantage, and that all those social graces are not good for much if the queen does not know what the king needs from his lords. 

It makes her feel useful, like more than just an ornament, a tie to the North, and a womb to carry an heir to the realm. The king is always cold in his demeanour, but she can see the approval in his eyes when she grasps this or that matter of state, and she has almost given up her carefully studied habit of appearing less smart than she is. Stannis hates simpletons almost as much as liars; he expects those around him to be smart and blunt and voice their thoughts, so he can evaluate them before he makes his own decisions. Of course he does not listen to her the way he listens to Lord Davos or Ser Jon, but he does listen, more and more with every week.

Still, she startles when he enters the room, his movements brusque and quick; he always moves like a man who has no time to lose. Ser Rolland is with him, but he bows quickly and retreats back to the door when he sees the queen. Sansa appreciates the privacy; Ser Rolland has always been the most gallant of Stannis' new kingsguard, all of them picked for their skill with a sword and their loyalty rather than for their courtly manners.

“Your Grace.” Sansa doesn't curtsey anymore these days. Stannis told her not to, that he won't have his queen grovel like some courtier's wife. She merely inclines her head a little, hides her smile. His frown deepens, but he steps closer, within arm's reach. A curt nod, before he glances down at the light swell of her belly under her golden dress. There is concern in his eyes, although she suspects it is more for the unborn child than for her.

“Sansa.” His tone is almost questioning, but it always makes her smile when he uses her name. She looks up to meet his eyes.

“Forgive me for interrupting your work, I do not mean to keep you from your duties.” She hesitates before she reaches out for his hand, wrapping her fingers around his. His skin is rough, but his hand is warm, strong. She remembers the touch of those hands, always a bit stiff and awkward, but careful, tender almost, like a man who is afraid of breaking something precious. She misses it. Stannis has refused to share her bed since she told him she was with child, and Sansa can hardly believe how much she misses his nightly visits. She squeezes his hand lightly. “But I barely see you anymore, except at court. Do you think you could spare a moment for me?”

He is still frowning, too suspicious to believe that she merely missed his company, but he does not pull his hand away.

“A moment,” he concedes. “You are not ill, my lady?”

“Oh no, I'm fine.” A pause. “The child is fine.”

She puts his hand on her belly, and he finally seems to relax a bit. There is a flicker of hope in his dark blue eyes, a hope he barely wants to allow himself. She wonders what he is more afraid of – that she will lose the child, or that it will be another daughter, another heir whose rule would never be unchallenged. It is not a man's pride to see his line continued that makes him wish for a son, but fear of another civil war after his death, or even during his lifetime if the lords rise up against a king who cannot even produce a male heir.

When she had shared the good news with him, he had demanded that she never promise him a son, for he could not bear to see that promise broken. His anger had hurt her at first, but his features had softened when he added, 'This kingdom has bled enough. And without a male heir, it will bleed again and again until someone takes this throne who can keep it for more than one generation.' She had felt a tightness in her chest then, and for the first time she had glimpsed at the man her half-brother seemed to admire so much. He had been kind to her before, but she had only realised then that he was more than just not cruel – he truly cared for the realm and its people, even if he would phrase it in terms of duty and justice rather than caring and concern.

His hand moves from her belly to her hip now, and there is almost a smile in his eyes when he meets her gaze. He doesn't want to hope – like her, he has hoped and lost too often, has suffered too much to believe that the world offers anything but strife and disappointment, but the past months have been good, for them and for the realm, as good as they can be after years of winter and war.

Sansa steps closer to him, to the warmth of his body. It hits her then that he truly doesn't intimidate her anymore. Not when he sits the throne, not when he eviscerates his council and his court with sharp words, not when they're alone and his hard hands are on her body. She feels safe by his side. And although she is terrified of losing what bit of appreciation he seems to have for her if she fails to give him a son, she prefers to think about how much closer they could be if she _does_ give him the heir he and the realm so desperately need.

He shifts from one foot to the other; he still is never truly comfortable in her presence. Nor does he seem aware that his unease, if anything, reassures her.

“I have work to do, my lady,” he says stiffly, but he doesn't move away yet. It emboldens Sansa, and she raises her hand to his cheek, clean-shaven, but already a bit rough this late in the afternoon.

“Stannis,” she whispers, and he shudders. She only ever calls him by his name in bed. He leans just the smallest bit into her touch, and she knows what a big concession that is from him already. So she dares to add, “I've missed you.”

He wants to scoff, he wants to argue, wants to tell her to stop flattering him, and it always makes her heart ache that he is so incapable of seeing himself through her eyes, of even imagining that she could like him. Love him even, she thinks in that moment. She knows too well what this feels like, thinking that nobody in the world could want her for herself. So she doesn't give him enough time to object, but leans in and kisses him. His lips are dry under hers, and she can taste the lemon water he prefers to wine, but after a stunned moment of stillness he kisses her back, his lips moving only a little, his tongue barely brushing against hers. 

Sansa feels warm, hot even, and she idly wonders how she could have ever thought this room cold when all she wants now is to get out of her heavy dress, so she can feel his hands on her thighs, his lips on her breasts. Her thoughts make her blush like a maiden, but she doesn't pull back, keeps kissing him, for who knows how long she will have to cling to this stolen kiss before she can get him alone again. 

She sighs in protest when he breaks the kiss, far too soon. His eyes are on hers now, burning bright with blue fire; he wants her so much it makes her breath race, but Stannis Baratheon is nothing if not disciplined. He raises his hand to her face, gently twirls a loosened strand of her red hair around his finger. He always touched her hair first when he shared her bed, undid her braids and caressed her tresses before he ever touched her skin; what had been a way to calm both of them during their wedding night had become a ritual on all following nights. The look he gives her now is softer, and it makes her think that maybe, maybe it is not only his unborn heir he cares about. Maybe he can find it in him to love her, Sansa, for who she is, to start seeing things in her that are worth loving, just like she is starting to see behind his gruff, angry exterior.

“Sansa,” he starts. His voice cracks a little, the way it does when he tries to soften it, but he seems to have forgotten how. Still his fingers play with that wayward strand, while hers rest against his cheek. Stannis looks as if he wants to say something, but for all his eloquence when he's mocking his lords or shutting them up, he never knows what to say to her. She waits, patiently, just caresses his jaw.

Years of practice in schooling her features do not help her when he finally says, “I want you to be at the council meeting in the morning, should you feel well enough.” She stares at him in disbelief.

“Me?”

“Only to listen, of course.” Her hand has dropped to his shoulder. It is one thing for the king to share some thoughts with her over dinner, but for him to invite her to his council? Her face must give away her confusion, and he explains, “The court knows they can't win my favour through flattery or bribes. The Tyrells, the Tullys, the Dornish, every lord who suddenly always hated the Lannisters and secretly supported my claim – they can't reach me, so they will try to get to me through you. Especially should you –”

_Should you give me a son._ He can't even bring himself to say it, as if acknowledging his hopes would bring him bad luck. How much disappointment must a man have known that he can't even speak of what he wants anymore? The king takes a deep breath. “It is much harder to manipulate someone who knows what is going on, so I shall not keep you in the dark.”

Sansa thinks of the stories she has heard about the king's first wife. People whisper that she was bewitched by the Red Woman long before that sorceress counselled the king, and that she grew insane in the end. And yet she feels that there is more to this than only Stannis' wish for his second marriage to be better than his first. It's a sign of trust, from a man who did not even trust his own brothers.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Her voice quivers, and she can't hide her smile now, can't suppress the warm tingle in her chest. She wants to kiss him again, not out of desire this time, but out of something else, some girlish feeling she hadn't thought herself capable of anymore.

Stannis nods curtly, uncomfortable again now that he has spoken his mind, and steps away from her.

“I need to get back to work. You should go and rest now, my queen.” He starts shuffling through the papers on his desk while she is still standing next to him. Once such rudeness would have outraged her, but she has long learnt that a husband can have worse flaws than a lack of courtly manners. She thinks of that little girl who had left Winterfell with a heart full of songs and dreams. That little girl could have never loved Stannis Baratheon, she would have thought him old and crude and ugly. She would never have seen what else he was. And he would have never let that little girl close enough to see. 

“Yes, Stannis,” she says quietly, and he does look up at her at that. Smiles even, if that twitch in his jaw can be called a smile. Jon says it's the only smile you can get from the king on most days, but Sansa has seen the king smile properly, in the dark of the night, when his guard is down. She is tempted to steal another kiss and get that real smile on his face, but she knows that the king's duties are sacred to him. He may forgive her a short interruption, but he would not stand for unnecessary frivolity. So she carefully tucks back the loosened strand of her hair, smiles at him as his eyes follow her movements, before she turns to leave him to his papers. 

Ser Rolland's face is carefully blank when she passes him by the door. He was not in the room, but she does wonder how much he has heard. They say the Kingsguard hears and sees nothing at all, but his eyes are soft when he bows to her, and he returns her smile. His scarred face is painful to behold, but she finds that she does not mistrust him. Between him and her brother, she might just forget her fear of white armours, even start to trust them to keep her safe, just as she is starting to think that the Red Keep might indeed become her home. And if it does not, at least she knows that her husband hates King's Landing as much as she does.


End file.
